


Acquainted

by pterodactylichexameter



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Crossover, F/M, M/M, Multi, OT3, Smut, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 01:29:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8513515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterodactylichexameter/pseuds/pterodactylichexameter
Summary: Dorian stumbles through a witch mirror and comes across a little more than he bargained for. "When she asks Dorian, brazenly stirring the ice left in her glass, if he would be returning that night or in the morning, Azriel’s grip tightens on her leg as they await his response.And the king, a slow smile spreading on his face, merely says with a casual shrug, “If I have a place to stay, I don’t think anyone in my kingdom will miss me for a night.”"(This started out as a crack ship and just... turned into something else)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nesrynfaliq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nesrynfaliq/gifts).



> Thanks to Lauren (nesrynfaliq/highfaelucien) for throwing around hcs with me until this ship just sort of... hit us straight in the face. And her avid enthusiasm for this fic to exist in the first place. Never would've happened without you, My Lady Stoneheart
> 
> Title from The Weeknd because Acquainted it my favorite song to write smut to...

Mor has no idea what is going on, only that there’s a man claiming to be a king who strolled into Rita’s that night and now he’s in her bedroom. Between songs, he spouted something about a witch mirror, sapphire tunic with gold embroidery gleaming in the faelight, and took one long look up and down Mor’s sleek silk dress.

She was quick to dismiss him of course, until Azriel returned to her side and she watched the king’s eyes work their way down . . . up her mate’s form as well. He grinned at the two of them, a flash of white teeth and piercing blue eyes, and Azriel’s eyebrows shot to the ceiling.

“Making friends?” he asked, passing over her drink, eyes never leaving the man lounging back in the booth across from them.

The man in all his tall, broad grace, extended a wide palm across the table. “King Dorian. It’s a pleasure.”

And after that? She’s used to self-assured males flirting with her--or at least attempting to. It’s fun to see them flounder sometimes, even better to see their faces when Azriel shows up, silent as death behind them, and slips up to her side. She doesn’t need his protection and it never bothers him--being territorial is never his style--but if she should ask, he’ll have them fleeing as soon as they realize the shadows creeping over their feet are coming from  _ him _ .

This King Dorian, though, he’s different. 

Azriel usually never looks twice at the men or women who approached either of them. He doesn’t need to. From the minute he sees the man reclining in the seat across from them, circlet askew over the dark, thick waves of his hair, Mor doesn’t need the bond to know the feeling pulsing through her mate’s blood: intrigue. 

She sees the way her mate looks at this man, though, the way his eyes linger on the chestnut waves of his hair, and the fact that he shifts in his seat when Dorian rolls up his sleeves in the heat of the room, exposing tanned, muscular forearms. 

At one point, Dorian chuckles, reaching up to tuck a stray bit of hair behind his ear, and Mor lets her mental shields drop just enough for Az to slip inside and then wonders, innocently loud and well aware her mate can hear her musings, what it would feel like to bury her fingers in that thick hair and send his thin golden circlet clattering to the floor. 

Azriel’s hand finds her thigh under the table, high enough to be a warning as well as a plea.

The rest of the night, as Mor flirts with the king, answering his questions about their land, customs, even nodding at Azriel’s wings tucked against his back, all the while her mate remains quiet, observing, tracing idle patterns on her thigh. And when she asks Dorian, brazenly stirring the ice left in her glass, if he would be returning that night or in the morning, Azriel’s grip tightens on her leg as they await his response.

And the king, a slow smile spreading on his face, merely says with a casual shrug, “If I have a place to stay, I don’t think anyone in my kingdom will miss me for a night.”

And that’s that.

They walk back to Mor and Azriel’s townhouse a few streets up into the city, Mor with her arm wound through Azriel’s, Dorian close enough at her side that she can’t resist the shock of thrill that runs through her when their arms brush on the crowded streets, or that Azriel and Dorian keep making eye contact over her head. 

The two of them have never done anything like this before, inviting someone else into their bed. Discussing it, however? That’s an entirely different story. They’ve decided that the option is entirely on the table if they find someone who suits the both of them.  And this King Dorian? He suits them both very well indeed.

When Azriel unlocks the door, ushering the both of them into the entryway, Mor turns to face Dorian, watching him take in the dark foyer of their home, all paneled wood and plush carpets.

“Not a castle,” he says with a teasing shrug, cocking his head to offer Azriel a lazy smile, “but it’ll do.”

Mor huffs out a breath and starts up the stairs, the weight of two pairs of eyes on the low back of her dress practically brushing over her skin. “Does it matter what the walls are made of if there’s a bed big enough for three?”

She can feel Azriel’s pulse of affection singing through the bond, that he’s just as enthralled with how the night might go as she.

Neither of them respond and she knows how closely Dorian is following her mate, chest almost pressed against his back as they follow her up the stairs on silent feet. 

Which is how she finds herself standing in front of the bed Azriel made that morning, watching the males in front of her gauging each other.

A few breaths pass, the mating bond between her and Az strung tight and urgent.

“Well?” Mor says with an expectant smile. She crooks her finger at the king. 

The king glances between them. From Mor to Azriel. Azriel to Mor.

And then he’s crossing the room, slow and deliberate.  Mor reaches up and pauses for a moment with her hand on the high plane of his cheekbone, reading the assurance and curiosity in his eyes. He wants to kiss her, that’s certain. And he wants to kiss Azriel, she knows that too. But that can come later.

So she rises just a little bit higher, nudging the back of his head down until his mouth finds hers.  His lips are soft and move against hers gently at first, tentative. It’s different, kissing someone who isn’t her mate, but it--surprisingly--doesn’t feel wrong to have Dorian’s arms rising to her waist or his tongue brushing over her lips. Not when she can feel Azriel slinking closer to the pair of them, head cocked, watching them.

It feels anything but wrong. 

Mor sucks in a breath when he nips at her lower lip, hands skating over her bare back through the dip in her dress that falls to the lower reaches of her spine. Through the bond, she can feel Azriel caressing his approval, and how much he wants a turn.

When Dorian’s tongue brushes hers, though, Mor almost jolts at the ease of her mate’s hands around her stomach from behind, scars slipping over smooth silk.  It’s already overwhelming, with Dorian’s tongue sweeping suddenly through her mouth, his hand cradling the back of her head, while Azriel’s hair tickles her cheek when he ducks to press soft kisses to her jaw, tracing a slow, steady line down her throat.

He tastes like spiced wine and something headier, colder, like the magic he’d hinted at without really explaining. 

Where Az is all soft murmurs to work her torturously slowly up throughout the night, Dorian kisses her like he can barely control himself, like he can’t help but devour her all at once.  If it were just Azriel, he would spend the next hour easing her out of her clothes with the fluttering pressure of kisses over each inch of bared skin. He’d trail his lips over her inner thighs, up and down, up again to the crease of her thigh, hands holding her down so she wouldn’t move against his mouth before he’d let her. 

And when he would finally set his mouth over where she’d want him most, it would be an eternity of teasing. Working her right towards the edge and easing away just before she could fall. By the time he’d push into her, she’d be a writhing mess of hair clinging to the back of her neck and his name on her tongue.

Dorian eases away from the kiss, tugging her closer against his body. He ducks to her throat before pulling away and it’s only when she feels Azriel shift more firmly against her back, one hand leaving her waist, that she realizes Dorian is kissing Azriel over her shoulder.

And it’s. . .

In all their centuries together, Mor has never seen Azriel kiss anyone but her. Before the bond, he’s most certainly seen her kiss other people because that’s just who she is. Affectionate. Sometimes a little too drunk for her own good, but that’s besides the point. And Azriel kissing Dorian. . .

Mor’s stuck between them, lips parted as she watches Azriel’s head tip to the side just so and. . . she knows what he’s doing. Knows with Dorian’s hand tightening around her waist that her mate is showing this king exactly what his tongue can do with six hundred years of practice.

Azriel’s hand threads through Dorian’s deep brown hair at the nape of his neck and Mor draws in a long, shuddering breath. Heat throbs suddenly between her thighs when she watches Dorian’s jaw as he opens his mouth wider, allowing for Azriel’s tongue and--

She arches back when her mate’s hands slide up her body, cupping her breasts through her dress. She’s not wearing any undergarments, not with such a low back, so all she can feel is the pressure of his thumbs catching over her nipples through the dark silk.

Dorian shifts in and her thighs part around one of his.  It’s only when she grinds against the hard length of his leg and whimpers that the males break apart, panting, and Mor knows without a doubt that tonight. . . tonight will go well.

“Enjoying yourself?” Dorian smirks down at her, hitching his leg a little higher to rub against her and she grasps Azriel’s thick forearm.  She can barely focus enough as it is, wrapped in Azriel’s warm vanilla and leather scent and the new aroma in their room: the crisp, clean linen and something deep and rich and dark that seems to radiate off of Dorian’s skin.

It’s even more difficult to even comprehend answering when her mate is kissing along her shoulder in the slow, teasing way that suits him so well. It’s the mix of the familiar and the new that has her pulse quickening. Azriel reaches to nudge the strap of her dress over shoulder and the knuckles he drifts down her bare arm has goosebumps rising on her skin.

Dorian pulls away slightly, just enough to let his lips drift over her jaw, kissing the edge of her mouth before ducking to her throat. And just as Azriel flicks her opposite strap over her shoulder--the last bit of tension preventing her dress from dropping around her waist--Dorian sucks on a spot just under her ear and a curse drops out before she can stop it.

And then Azriel’s fingertips drift over the curve of her bare breast and Dorian draws away slowly, hand slipping down to her thigh.  She almost flushes under the collected, slow survey of her body. It doesn’t embarrass her, exactly, to have this king taking his time drinking in her bare upper half, but it has warmth flooding down through the pit of her stomach.

“Touch her,” comes Azriel’s low voice at her ear and Mor would have melted to the floor in a puddle were it not for the king’s thigh wedged between her own or her mate pressing against her back.

She sees Dorian look at Azriel, eyebrows raised, then he looks to her again, as if asking permission.

“Go on then,” she says, breathless, arching her back slightly. Azriel’s already wrapped an arm fully around her middle, caressing the bare inch of her exposed stomach with his fingertips.

The first brush has her biting her lip, both at his hands, almost cool to the touch, and Azriel’s purr of satisfaction against their bond.  Where Azriel’s hands are broad and weathered both from his scars and the callouses of training, Dorian’s are slightly smaller, leaner, with long, elegant fingers.  And the way he touches her, circles her nipples before catching them between his thumb and forefinger. . . it’s simultaneously something Az would do and something he wouldn’t.

She can feel the question in the back of Azriel’s mind, the one he won’t voice, only let her feel pulsing through him:  _ Do you like this male’s hands on you? _

Instead of voicing her answer, she reaches behind her to grasp the back of his head, clenching a fistful of his hair. 

Dorian’s still watching the two of them carefully, eyes darting between her peaked breasts and their faces, and he steps back slightly when Mor lets her fingers slide from Azriel’s hair, back down to rest against Dorian’s stomach. She meets his gaze, eyes dark, and unhooks the bottom clasp on his tunic, testing his reaction. When he only raises his eyebrows, bidding her continue, she unclasps the heavy overtunic and he helps her shove the heavily formal garment over his shoulders.

But then Azriel shifts out from behind her and she lets out a little bark of protest that fades when he sidles forwards, reaching tentatively for Dorian’s torso. Under his tunic he’s wearing a billowing white shirt tucked into fitted pants belted at his waist. And all three pairs of eyes watch as Azriel slowly untucks Dorian’s shirt, shifting closer to pull it over his head.

Mor swallows hard at the hard planes of Dorian’s tan stomach, the light scars that are nowhere near as bad as Azriel’s but still cut across his skin in a few pale lines that makes her wonder what battles he’s had to face.

Whatever kingdom Dorian rules is lucky indeed, if this is their king. 

Mor’s breath catches when Azriel leans forwards to kiss Dorian again, a gentle press as he lets his hand drift down his throat, a line that eases over the firm expanse of his chest, down to the dark trail of hair at his navel.

She’s never been hesitant exactly about letting someone else into their bed, but she hasn’t quite anticipated what it does to her to see Azriel leaning forward to kiss Dorian again. She can’t see what Dorian’s hands are doing, but the tailored black tunic covering Azriel’s form is being shoved over his shoulders and before they can catch on the closures over the wings, Mor unseals them with her magic so it’s cast off onto the floor.

There’s already an ache between her thighs at the sight of Azriel’s broad wings practically quivering so she reaches out as Dorian moves for Azriel’s thin shirt and lets her fingers brush over the sensitive membrane.

Azriel jerks against Dorian, snarling, and Mor’s hand is suddenly circled in shadow.

“What--” Dorian starts, pulling away, breathless.  He pauses at the sight of the tight circle of darkness holding Mor’s hand away from the black stretch of wing.

Through the bond, Azriel’s composing himself.  _ You should know better _ .

Mor shifts, because she  _ does _ know. Whenever they bring wing play into the bed--or out of it--she always eases into it with slow caresses and he can always see her reaching before the first stroke.

Seeing her ever-composed mate jerk with surprise, if even just for a moment. . . Startling a male who is rarely ever shocked. . .

Her thighs clench together and she tugs at the shadow around her wrist, but it doesn’t budge, still held in a firm, unyielding grasp of darkness.

“Az--” she says, breathless.

Both males are looking at her now, watching, and Dorian nods to her restraint. “Your magic?”

Azriel turns to face her fully, then, and she can see the open collar of his shirt, half untucked, hair mussed. He’s always so put together and seeing him like this, knowing it was another male’s hands that did, has her whimpering when she meets his eyes.

Instead of answering Dorian’s question, Azriel only has to let his gaze drop over her body and she feels a cool caress against her thigh through her dress.

She can hear Dorian’s breath catch even as he stands away from her, when she looks down to see the steady thread of shadow easing up her body.  When it reaches her bare stomach, the cool caress has goosebumps lifting on her skin, nipples peaking.

“Azriel,” she manages to groan out, eyes meeting his own, dark with want.  The dark, deceptively solid shadow slides up, between her breasts just as another presses its cool warmth against the curve of her neck in the barest kiss. She gasps, completely and utterly wrecked under the steady gaze of her mate and this king.

Azriel’s eyes. . . His eyes are so dark, filled with all the shadows in the world and she wants them to swallow her whole. 

She’d never let anyone else have her like this. If she wanted to, she could break through Azriel’s shadows with her magic, and he knows this. But the unspoken agreement between them, that she’ll let him do this. Have her pinned and writhing against the darkness at his command?

Mor groans his name again as the shadows circle her breast, teasing in slow caresses.

Just as the shadow flicks over her nipple, she gasps at the feel of a different, distinctly colder caress over her stomach.

Where Azriel’s shadows are dark and swirling, there’s something firmer and almost shimmery about what must be the cool, raw, air under Dorian’s control.

Mor’s toes curl in her slippers and she’s so desperate at both of these male’s magic on her with their bodies held away, that she reaches with her free hand, finding the slit in the side of her dress, scrabbling to pull the fabric aside and just help things along of her own volition.

But Dorian’s magic is suddenly wrapping around her wrist, pulling her hand away from where she wants it, and Azriel lets out a hum of approval.

“Az,” Mor begs, thighs pressing together against the ache between them.  It’s too much all at once, their magic steadily caressing her bare skin, tickling her skin through the slit in her dress.

But her mate only offers a slow smirk and she feels the first hook holding her dress around her waist undo.

“Az,” she says again, softer.

The second hook pops open, her dress inching lower around her hips.  She’s trembling against their magic.

“Say his name,” Azriel murmurs, shadows rising to the underside of her jaw as Dorian’s magic replaces his on her breasts.

“Dorian,” she gasps out.

Azriel’s shadow presses what should be a kiss to just under her ear. “Louder.” His voice is so quiet, firm, steady. A male who knows what he wants.

“Dorian,” she cries out and the last hook holding her dress around her hips breaks apart, sending the dark silk pooling around her legs.

Azriel’s gaze drops along her body to the scrap of lace between her thighs and his shadows follow, making lazy swirls over her stomach and hips.

“Please,” she pants. She’s trembling and soaked through her only remaining garment and she just wants them touching her. Their magic is certainly an original experience but she wants  _ them _ . Their warm hands and firm bodies and the trip of callouses over her skin. “Az, please. Dorian--”

If it were just her mate doing the teasing, she knows she’d be writhing and trembling against his shadows for a good long while as he works her up with the barest, wickedest touches. Azriel knows how to have her weak and writhing with the minimum. Not to avoid touching her, or that he doesn’t spend hours with slow, broad strokes over her skin.

Azriel enjoys the game, the process of it. He enjoys finding what has her arching and gasping against him.  Enjoys finding how little he can do to get the most out of her reaction.

Dorian, though, is apparently less inclined to teasing her into the next century because he’s the one striding for her. 

His magic tears away from her when he surges down to kiss her.  The teasing, their magic, Dorian’s teeth clacking against hers and his tongue sweeping through her mouth, it’s all too much that she falls back, stumbles, until the backs of her legs hit the bed.

And Azriel’s shadows are gone, replaced with  _ him  _ behind her, sitting on the edge of the bed where he winnowed to.  Their bond pulses hot between them and Mor revels at the thought of being between them again.

Dorian’s hands roam over her bare flesh, down to grab her backside, barely covered in sheer lace, and she feels Azriel’s legs on either side of her as his hands trace her thighs.

Mor whimpers when Dorian drags her lower lip between his teeth. He’s not gentle and it’s not that Az is always gentle, but. . . there are rare moments when her mate isn’t fully dedicated to  _ her _ pleasure.  Even when Azriel takes her, he never really  _ takes _ her. And she’s never been unsatisfied with that, has never even dreamt of anyone but Azriel.

It’s just that there’s such a difference between the males in front of her that it’s thrilling. Because she gets the feeling that as much as Dorian is enjoying the steady, slow rise to the top, she doesn’t have a doubt that if she asked him to--if Azriel asked him to--he’d have her hard and fast and bend her over the side of the bed.

“Do you want that?” Azriel murmurs, thumb tracing the lace edge at the crease of her hip.

Mor whimpers against Dorian’s mouth, yielding more fully to him, thighs parting for Azriel’s hands. She just wants  _ something _ , either of them, to relieve some of the unbearable ache.

“Yes,” she manages to get out, groaning against Dorian’s tongue even though he doesn’t know what they’re talking about.

Azriel’s hands wrap around her hips, pulling her down onto his lap, right over the ridge in his pants.

Dorian’s kiss breaks away and he stares down at them, panting. His hair is a mess from her hands and she can see the bulge in the front of his trousers, just below his belt.  She wants him. She wants both of them and it doesn’t matter who.

She grinds back against her mate and she feels his breath hot against her throat, the way he twitches against her backside.

And then Dorian drops to his knees, holding her gaze the whole way. “May I?” he asks, voice low, as he reaches for her only remaining covering.

She nods, breathless.

Dorian’s fingers hook into the band around her hips and give it a slight tug, easing the garment over her thighs as Azriel helps lift her up off his lap slightly.

The king tosses them aside and lets his gaze drift up her legs to where Azriel is stroking the crease of her thighs, never reaching where she wants.  He slides forwards, fingers brushing the outside of her knee, and eases her thighs apart.

She knows when her scent hits Azriel because he lets out a long breath against her skin, watching Dorian over her shoulder.

And the way the king is looking at her, like this is everything he wants--to get between her thighs while Azriel holds her--is enough that she widens her legs for him, biting her lip.

Dorian ducks down, kissing the inside of each thigh and she’s trembling against him.

He touches her, almost hesitantly at first, and then his fingers are sliding through her slick folds, parting her for--

Mor arches against her mate, head falling back on his shoulder at the first lick. A broken, desperate cry when he circles his tongue around where she wants him, flicking--

“That’s it,” Azriel murmurs, nibbling on her ear.

Dorian’s hands wrap around her hips and Azriel’s slide up, cupping her breasts.

“Az--” she pants, one hand reaching back to slide through his hair, the other descending to grasp Dorian’s.

“I know,” he says, voice low and soft as velvet, and she only just realizes that her walls are down and he can feel through the bond every lick and caress of Dorian’s tongue as she does.  “You’re so wet for him, aren’t you Morrigan?”

She whimpers and nearly falls to pieces. Az is. . . rarely this vocal in bed. He’ll let out breathless groans occasionally, when she runs her hands along his wings in just the right spot, or tell her, voice stunningly collected as he pushes into her for the first time, how beautiful she is.

It’s the way Azriel can handle himself in bed that has her trusting him so. Rare are the days where he seems out of control, always keeping a grip on himself.

And Dorian--he sucks once, just enough to have her jerking against his grasp on her hips, and traces a line down until he’s licking  _ into _ her, his thumb reaching to press where his tongue has just been.

“I can feel how much you like that,” Azriel says, rubbing steadily over her nipples with just enough pressure that she’s torn between trying to arch against Dorian’s mouth and Azriel’s hands.

Her grasp tightens in both of their hair. She needs everything all at once even when she knows it’ll be too much. Needs the thick length jutting against her backside in her and Dorian’s hands and mouth and magic on her. Need’s Azriel’s midnight voice in one ear and Dorian’s cocky promises in the other.

“Dorian,” Azriel says, ever in control even as hers breaks apart, brow creasing.

The king meets her mate’s eyes.

“Use your fingers.”

Mor shudders at just the implications of that and feels Dorian’s smirk. Her thighs are shaking and Dorian pulls them over his arms to rest them over his shoulders before he reaches between them, easing inside her.

A curse drops out of Mor’s mouth before she can stop it and she feels Azriel’s lips turn up against her neck. She knows Dorian could ruin her if it were just the two of them and she certainly knows how much her mate can do when they’re alone, but the both of them together. . . smirking into her skin as they tease and have her trembling in their arms. . .

Dorian pumps his fingers in her slowly. She writhes against his hands clasping her hips into place, lost in the feel of male hands everywhere at once, her nails digging into their hair to hold on to anything she can.

When he adds a second finger, pressing suddenly down on the sensitive place between her thighs with a single broad stroke, she lets out a cry.

“You look incredible,” Azriel’s murmuring in her ear, words just for her.  “You’re such a good girl, Morrigan.” She gasps, clamping her lips together to keep herself from screaming because he knows how much she likes the praise. Especially from him.

All it’ll take is a little more--

Dorian knows. He must know she’s close because he’s moving faster against her, fingers pumping in her, making slick sounds even as she feels the vibrations of his groan radiating through her. 

And finally--finally--she comes with a cry, head falling back on Azriel’s shoulder as she tightens around Dorian’s fingers, riding the pleasure that bursts through her, shattering every nerve and roaring down the bond.

Azriel kisses along her shoulder, rubbing soothing circles over her stomach and hips and when Dorian finally draws away, leaving Mor limp and trembling, jolting as he withdraws his fingers from her, Az reaches down to guide the king up.

The hand her mate has at the back of Dorian’s head pulls him forwards, drawing his mouth down to meet his.  It’s hot and desperate all at once and Mor can feel the groan vibrating through Azriel’s chest against her back and she knows that he can taste her on Dorian’s tongue.

As much as Mor wants to turn around in Azriel’s arms, unbuckle his belt and unlace his pants enough to free him and slide down on his length--what she’d do if it were just the two of them--there’s more than just them to take care of.

So she eases from between them and it takes all of three seconds before her mate is rising, maneuvering Dorian until he’s lying back on the bed and Azriel is crawling up after him. Mor swallows hard at the two of them, all tan muscle and dark hair and Azriel’s wings arching up over them, out of reach of prying hands.

She inches up next to them, reaching out to drift her hand over Azriel’s shoulder, sliding her fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck and leaning in to press gentle kisses along his ear.  It’s when she sees Dorian’s hips lifting off the bed to grind against Azriel’s leg wedged between his that she murmurs her suggestion.

Azriel pauses, wings rustling, and looks over to her with dark eyes. “You want that?”

Mor nods, and then turns to Dorian, leaning in to kiss him once. The scent between them is all muddled. Her and Azriel and Dorian all jumbled together until she doesn’t know whose is whose anymore.

“Do you want his mouth on you?” she asks Dorian, feeling Azriel nuzzle her shoulder.

Dorian’s brows raise. “Was that not what’s already--”

Mor lets out a huff of breath, sliding her hand between the two males until she reaches the laces of Dorian’s pants, cupping the generous bulge there.  “If you must be  _ difficult _ , his mouth on your cock.”

Azriel huffs a laugh against her bare skin and a slow smirk spreads on Dorian’s face that fades into something else when her mate’s hand replaces hers. She tucks herself along Dorian’s side as Azriel lifts up to undo Dorian’s belt.  She knows Az is just as enthralled with this night as she is; she can feel it radiating down the bond and she loves that he’s into this.  That Dorian turned up out of Cauldron knows where and he can be there with them tonight. With all three of them. 

“Have you ever done this before?” Dorian asks curiously, watching closely with hooded eyes as Azriel undoes the laces of Dorian’s pants, kneeling between this thighs.

“Yes,” he simply says, and Mor shivers at the sound. He’s so sure of himself. She knows Azriel isn’t concerned with the gender of his lovers.  He doesn’t care between men and women as long as he’s invested in their pleasure and they in his. 

Dorian opens his mouth to say something but Azriel ducks down and takes him in his mouth,  and all that Dorian can manage is a muffled groan.

Mor’s thighs clench together and she’s suddenly just as ready for either of them as she watches, unable to tear her eyes away, as Azriel slowly eases down on Dorian, taking him as deep in his mouth as he’ll go.

_ Shit _ .

Dorian reaches up, shoving his hand through his hair. He can only watch for a moment before Azriel must do something with his tongue because Dorian jerks, grunting, and his head falls back on the pillows. 

The males in front of her will be her undoing, she’s sure. 

Azriel is all slow and steady strokes that have the king’s head falling back. At the exposed column of his throat, crossed with a thin white line, paler than the rest of him, Mor leans in to trace her lips up to his ear. His skin tastes faintly like fresh soap, salty with the heavy warmth between them.

“Fuck,” Dorian mutters, hips arching up, and Mor slides her hand over Dorian’s firm chest, over to cup his jaw as she nibbles at his skin. She can feel the rapid pounding of his heart through his skin and grinds against his hip.

Az takes his own time with these things, Mor knows all too well.  There’s no rushing her mate and he likes it that way.  He’s all stable, unwavering rhythm with his mouth--his hands--easing her towards the peak only to pull her away at the last minute.  Which is why, when she knows Dorian’s close, tugging on Azriel’s hair, mumbling a warning, Azriel abates.

Dorian growls in frustration, hips bucking up, and Mor smiles into her kisses along his shoulder.  He means to urge Azriel along, she knows when he gives another insistent tug on Azriel’s hair.

“Let him,” she murmurs against Dorian’s jaw, leaving a hot, open-mouthed kiss against his skin.  “He knows what he’s doing.”

“I’m well aware--” Dorian growls, cutting off when Azriel must redouble his efforts because his words die in his mouth, lips parting in silent pleasure.

Mor leans in, guiding Dorian’s mouth to hers in a sloppy kiss.  It’s messy and she can barely control herself, not when she knows what Dorian’s going through with Azriel’s mouth on him.  Dorian’s arm circles around her back, fingers digging into her waist as the other clutches onto Azriel’s hair.

Through the bond, she feels Azriel give a nudge. She breaks away for a moment to look down at him to find his eyes waiting for hers, dark and wanting.  The insatiable lust he sends through the bond has a shudder running through her.

Dorian’s panting and then Azriel breaks her gaze suddenly to pump faster, broad palm sliding up Dorian’s stomach.

She feels the tension break through the king’s body when he finally shatters, the arm around her tightening as he goes loose and tight all at once, panting.

Mor kisses him through it all, slowing and easing him down. He gives a slight jerk when Azriel slides his mouth away, wiping his chin and kneeling.

His eyes flash to Mor and she practically whimpers under his gaze. Azriel has never been predatory in bed, demanding perhaps at times, but not predatory. The look he’s giving her now though, is completely unguarded as he shifts over Dorian’s legs. He doesn’t break her gaze and a hot flush spreads from her cheeks down her chest when her eyes drop to see him undoing his belt.

The clatter of the buckle and the way he tugs at his laces, not quickly but not wasting time, either, has her going still. Next to her, Dorian’s barely recovering, breath washing over her cheek, and Mor’s breath hitches when she feels the  _ need _ hit her through the bond.

He’s watched this king finish her with his mouth and fingers, he’s had his mouth wrapped around this king, and now he’ll have her.

Azriel is stark silent. He doesn’t need to say anything as he draws himself out of his trousers.  The sight of him has her mouth going dry.

He gives himself a few pumps, never breaking her gaze, and reaches to roll her onto her back with a hand grasped firmly onto her hips. He’s not rough, but he knows what he wants and he’ll  _ have _ what he wants, there’s no mistake about that.

She lets him part her thighs, cradling his hips with her own, and her heart pounds somewhere high in her chest when he nudges at her entrance before slipping inside in one smooth stroke.

“ _ Az _ ,” she whimpers, scrabbling at his back as he leans over her, drawing back to thrust in again, deeper.  It always feels right, too achingly right, to have him in her, over her, and she gasps a breath as he braces an elbow above her head, pressing the weight of his hips into hers.

There’s a reason every Illyrian she knows murmurs behind Azriel’s back about his wingspan.  The deeply satisfying stretch of him in her is one thing, but the fact that it’s  _ him _ makes everything even better.  Her cheeks feel hot and it takes all she can to hold onto Azriel’s shoulders as he sets a slow, delicious pace against her.

There’s nothing hesitant or questioning about the way he takes her. Azriel knows what will have her writhing against him and doesn’t stop to think about doing anything but giving her that. He’s always so selfless, offering all of himself that he can, that when she knows he’s ravenous enough to  _ take _ her. . .

The slick sounds of their movements has Dorian turning, glancing down to where they’re joined.  His cool palm roams over Mor’s stomach, then up to her breasts where he draws her nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

She’s trembling already and Azriel  _ knows _ . He knows how desperate she is for release and the look he gives her, a slow smirk, has her groaning in frustration because she knows he’s going to drag this out and make it last.

As Azriel is inclined to do.

Mor’s mind is everywhere at once, pleasure and irascible need rebounding through every inch of her body with Azriel in her and Dorian’s hands on her.  Her nails scrape through Azriel’s hair and she knows he’ll have marks on his neck and shoulders tomorrow but she doesn’t care and knows he won’t either.

Just as she feels herself rising to the edge with the heavy thrust of Azriel’s hips into hers, Dorian’s hand slides down between them and she almost sobs with relief at what he’s reaching to do.

But suddenly she feels his hand pause and the cool brush of something else and knows without even looking down that Azriel has Dorian’s hand encased in shadow.  “Dorian,” she manages to get out, panting because she  _ wants _ what he can give her.

She’s hovering just near the edge, needs that little push to get her across the cliff, and Azriel  _ knows _ that.  He just won’t give it to her yet.

Curses race through her mind and she shoves them at the bond in frustration, only to be met with an amused chuckle. How he can be so damn put together when she’s--

She lets out a growl when Dorian withdraws to brush back up her stomach. He kisses her instead, tipping her chin towards him and scraping his tongue against hers.

He swallows the noises that fall out before she can stop them. Azriel draws her to the brink twice more, until she’s a writhing mess, hair sticking to the nape of her neck and Dorian sucking at the sensitive skin under her jaw.

“Please,” she manages to get out, clawing at Azriel’s shoulders and Dorian’s arm over her.  “Az.  _ Azriel _ .”

She fumbles for Dorian’s arm, tugging his hand down to where she wants him. This time, the shadows swirling around Azriel now don’t lift to halt him, only slowing him.  _ Wait _ .

And Azriel ducks lower over her, pushing into her harder, faster. He brings his free hand down to grasp her thigh, hitching it higher on his hip, deepening the fit of him inside her.

Under her palms, the broad muscles in his shoulders are tight and slick with the heat between them. He’s holding back, she knows, when he lets out a heavy huff of breath, mouth opening against her shoulder.

She reaches down, sliding blindly over his back until she reaches the joint of his wing.

Azriel jerks against her, growling, and Mor strokes his wing once, twice.

“ _ Morrigan _ .” It’s a warning but she doesn’t care.

She strokes him again, whimpering as his hips snap into hers, and feels Dorian’s hand dip under her navel.

The first press of his fingers has her shattering with a cry, clutching Dorian’s wrist and Azriel’s back.

And with the release shooting through the bond, Azriel follows close behind, forehead pressing into her shoulder and his breath on her skin.

She’s panting, hyper sensitive at the pleasure still throbbing through her, eyes heavy, and feels a warm hand tracing soothing patterns on her stomach, soft lips drifting over her cheek.

Their bond is throbbing and Mor sucks in a breath when Azriel pulls out of her to settle to her side. When he nuzzles into her shoulder, pressing a soft kiss there, she feels the crack he opens through his shields to her, ushering her inside where it’s warm and comforting and she can feel his satisfaction still echoing in his blood.

On her other side, Dorian sinks down until his head is pillowed on her stomach, arm thrown over her to reach Azriel.

“So,” Dorian murmurs against her skin, looking up at Azriel from his place at her shoulder. “The wings, huh?”

Mor feels the amused huff from her mate as he reaches down to Dorian, running his fingers through his hair, letting it drift across his skin.  “Only for Mor.”

Dorian only gives a faint shrug. “There are plenty of other things for me to do.”

And then, looking down at this king’s head resting against her with her mate’s hands drifting through his hair, she lets out the slightest chuckle of amusement. If anyone had told her the night would end in this, she probably would have walked away without a second glance.

Azriel pushes a question against their bond and she only turns to nuzzle against his cheek in reassurance, kissing the corner of his mouth.

Dorian’s the one to drift off first, and she feels his breathing slow against her skin, relaxed to Azriel stroking through his hair and Mor tracing patterns on his arm.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself tonight,” Azriel murmurs after she thinks he’s already fallen asleep. But when she turns her head slightly and finds him eyeing her from his head resting on her shoulder, she draws in a steady breath.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Mmm,” he agrees, kissing her once, softly. “But I like to hear you say it anyway.”  His fingers catch in her hair cast across the pillow and he ducks to press his forehead into the crook of her neck, where he’ll fall asleep sometimes if he’s especially tired or just needs the physical comfort of her body against his.

Dorian shifts slightly closer to her in his sleep just as Azriel presses his warmth against her side.

“Well,” she admits with a slow grin, carding her fingers through her mate’s hair as his calloused thumb traces idle patterns on her hip. “There are worse places to be.”

Azriel huffs a breath against her throat and doesn’t even have to lift a finger to bring the blanket at the foot of the bed up to rest over the three of them.  He doesn’t even have to offer his agreement before he settles down to sleep.

After Mor’s sure both males are asleep against her, she glances between them, unable to resist the grin spreading on her face at the sight of them both there, draped against her. Her feet only come to Azriel’s knee at this point, and her toes are tucked against Dorian’s thigh, but both broad males are cradled against her, around each other, that she almost chuckles.

Perhaps, she wonders as she drifts off to the rise and fall of the bodies resting alongside hers, Azriel wouldn’t be opposed to looking into these witch mirrors. There’s a bare spot in the downstairs hallway that would be the perfect place. . .

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, I thrive off of comments and come join me in my trash can on [tumblr](http://pterodactylichexameter.tumblr.com)!


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